


The North Wind's Huntsman

by shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Bob has always professed to be a harmless little air elemental-- but he's more powerful than that would seem to entail. A convenient upheaval in Fairie blanks the slate on some old vendettas, and Bob is restored to his true form. Hello, Mister Minor Sidhe Lord.  Alternate universe, Bob-with-a-body. Chapters from PG to NC-17</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\------  
The letter had come in through my mail slot, but the only address was a scrolling, hand-written 'Dresden', and there wasn't a stamp.

I touched the faint bruises on my shoulder and thought I might know who'd sent it. My office was warm, heater up high against the Chicago winter, but I shivered as if someone had stroked cold fingers across my neck.

I slit the envelope open and pulled out a sheaf of parchment-- a letter, several pages, written in archaic, angular letters. No address on the letter, but it was signed. I'd been right.

I flicked a paranoid glance out the window, but there was nothing out there but the same never-ending, vision-obscuring snowfall that had kept smarter people at home today.

'Just' snow. Like that was supposed to be reassuring. The letter was from the Winter Hunter.

The Winter Hunter was a powerful Sidhe, a very new face on the scene. Well, actually, a very old face who hadn't been seen in a while. He'd been one of many: a shakeup in Faerie six months ago had erased a lot of old debts and vendettas and made it safe for a bunch of exiles to come back. My one debt to Mab had gone out the window with the rest of them, which was great.

Less great was my feud with the Hunter. We'd tangled more than once in the last six months. The bruises were just the latest evidence of it.

I read the letter, unable not to hear it in his familiar voice:

"It was a misunderstanding.

The girl was being cultivated for a ritual, raised innocent. A virgin. I only half knew, or knew and had forgotten. I had been disinterested in court politics for so long, and only cared that she knew nothing of lovemaking, that she was very beautiful, and that she looked at me from under her lashes.

She did not know that the Winter Hunter was the huntsman of the North Wind himself, one of his most powerful servants, and she did not know my wide history with the ladies (and the gentleman, and other stranger creatures) of the Winter Court and the surrounding lands. She did not know that she was supposed to be saving herself, or even that she was saving anything.

It was a misunderstanding, but Maeve's toy was corrupted before her virginity could be given to its purpose and not even the North Wind could stand before the Winter Lady, even if he had been inclined to save me.

Maeve is the heart of all Winter, and she is cold and cruel, though not quite as much as her mother. Mab would never have given me the chance to escape. Maeve, though, she will always be young as long as she is the Queen Who Is To Come. In those days, it was her pleasure to take the hearts of her enemies and to string them in frozen lanterns through her hall. It was very beautiful, I remember. I have no doubt she kept them until the Solstice Reckoning this year-- you might have seen them when you went into her demesne in Undertown, strands of many-colored light. But there would be so much else to remark on, I doubt you noticed them particularly. It will make you feel better, I know, to know that they were freed when I was.

The heart of a Sidhe is very different than your heart. It is much of what we are, and as long as it lives, we live. As long as my heart lived, I would live, and understand, and feel-- and an eternity trapped in ice is hell, for us as well as for mortals. Dante said it, but I don't think you read him. I told you to, if you remember, but were always terrible at poetry.

But the heart of a Sidhe is different. Even as she stripped my rank and much of my power I defied her, and fled disembodied from her court to the mortal world, her hunters on my track.

In the mortal world I met the first wizard who I would call 'master'. A Gallic Druid, living high in the mountains, alone but for his young apprentice. He was a good man, and had no cause to disbelieve me when I introduced myself as a simple air elemental. With him I bartered for protection and obscurity, trading him my service and my store of knowledge, and he made for me the home that would keep me safe from Maeve through the next six centuries.

He was the first and somewhat bloodthirsty, but not Dark. I don't know if you'll understand that. It was a different time. His apprentice had me next, and she was as fair and firm as her master had been. Then there were a handful of others, Light and Dark, petty and good, but then the twentieth century came and there was no Light.

I began the twentieth century still in the possession of the Teutonic necromancer, and what he did to me was worse than Maeve ever would have had patience for, and worse still because he did not mean to hurt me. He did not mean to help me. He was simply using me as he thought I was best used and I doubt he wondered if it hurt. And when he died, I was taken by the American madman, and if he was not so cruel as the necromancer it was only because he was not as clever. He had ambitions, and they were idiotic, and he had two orphans as apprentice-thralls, and they were idiotic, too, and after a century of Darkness it was painful to be so grateful when I was rescued by the idiot boy.

Yes, I do mean you, and yes, that is what I thought of you. Idiot apprentice. Your strength matched only by your clumsiness, your ambition all but nonexistent, the seed of Darkness in you fallen on fallow ground. You aren't as Dark as you think, you know. I know that. Of course it tempts you, that is its nature, but you are not as susceptible as some. As much as you are drawn to the Dark you have the power to resist.

And you are still clumsy, your spells more often than not succeeding because you can simply pour so much into them, and brace up their poor construction with your own pure will. And you are still ignorant, and it made my life an easier thing. Yes, I complained, but because you gave me freedom to complain. Even the Gall knew my place; servant, to serve. You didn't know, and you bridle at mindless servitude, and I gained concession after concession from you. Tawdry, small things, but six centuries is not the blink of an eye even for a Sidhe, and what I gained was precious to me. I took great advantage of you, never think otherwise.

Even as I used you, you gave to me freely and with an open heart. You know that names have power. Did you never think that gifting me with a name would give me new power of my own? None of the others would have done it, they would have known better. You are, in many ways, extremely innocent.

Since the Solstice Upheaval, Maeve had no further claim on my life. She was forced to return my power and rank, but she was well within her rights to do so through you. You were, after all, my master at the time, and we had a contract. She did not mean you to give it back to me. Had you been any other of my masters you would not have given it to me; you would have known the power and control over me it represented, and you would have understood the depth of my betrayal. Some things still frighten me, and I cannot think of what the necromancer would have done with such control of me, if the Upheaval had been a century earlier. It was Maeve's intention that you keep me bound, that you punish me as she could not.

Innocent, you brought me back my Self and offered me my freedom unreservedly because it was the Right Thing To Do.

My gratitude to you was only matched by my rage towards myself for feeling it. I took my freedom and left you with angry words, and we have not met since then without more angry words, and I know that what we have said to one another cannot be unsaid.

I still owe you the debts of a name and of my freedom, and I have never been anything but proud. I do not like this new debt just as all of my others have been wiped away, and I like even less that I still feel gratitude towards you. And you... have been betrayed and abandoned so often before. And so we cannot talk together without shouting, and so our encounters have been brief.

But I wanted you to know the story."

It was signed with the Hunter's sigil.

The parchment crumpled in my hands. I threw the letter away and dropped my head into my hands. The wound was six months old and still fresh. When the hell will I learn not to trust creatures of the Nevernever?

They're never as cute and fluffy and friendly as they're pretending. NEVER.

Could I believe the letter? Well, a lot of it only confirmed what I'd found out through other sources. The details of the 'misunderstanding' were new to me, but sounded authentic enough. The Winter Hunter had been an infamously libidinous bastard before his disappearance. And not picky. Everything from princesses to shepherdesses, and there were some kind of incongruous stories about shepherd boys and soldiers who'd gotten lost and been sheltered for a night by a strange hunter that would make a lot more sense if...

But what about the end? Gratitude? Come on. I could believe it about the debt. Playing by the Sidhe's bizarre rules, maybe he did owe me. The gratitude was probably just an angle so he could weasel out of it at half price.

Fine. I didn't _care._ I didn't want him to owe me anything-- just wanted him out of my life, abandonment issues or not.

All he had to do was ask. He could have his debts written off for a song-- of course, he'd have to ask, and it was true that any time we were in the same room it degenerated into shouting and insults really quickly.

That pattern went all the way back to the very first time I met him-- he'd manifested in my lab, his heart recombined with the rest of his Self, in a swirl of snow-- and I'd just gaped and said something stupid like "That's what you are?"

"What I was, and am again," he'd intoned, infinitely more formal than I'd ever heard him before.

"I didn't know," I'd murmured, and eyes the green-brown-gray color of ice over a frozen lake had narrowed.

"Your stupidity, Dresden, is a universal constant."

He'd vanished in a flicker of light, leaving me alone in the lab with a few flakes of snow that settled onto the floor and refused to melt.

I'd kicked myself for a while and hurt and mourned and decided I didn't miss him and I'd be just as happy never to see him again. So of course I'd seen him again.

He'd been standing over the corpse of a Black Court vampire, and I'd been laying against the wall with one leg numb and refusing to function. All I'd found to say was "Who the hell asked for your help?" as if I hadn't been about to die until he stepped in.

He kicked the hunched corpse over-- it shattered, frozen solid during one of Chicago's hotter Julys. "I did not give you any." He'd sheathed his ice-gray sword and didn't meet my eyes. "Winter is at war with these creatures, and I struck for Winter."

"Jackass," I'd snarled, and he'd snarled something back and been gone again, leaving snowflakes that melted before they hit the ground.

We'd tried to have a conversation, once-- I'd run into him in Mac's. It was an accident of timing, but it was neutral territory, and I took the risk, talking to him. I guess he was taking a risk, too, but we didn't get anywhere before the insults started. Mac kicked us out, and we wound up in a nearby alley shouting at the top of our lungs.

I'd forgotten what we said, except for one thing that had bitten deeper than the rest-

He grabbed me by the throat, pushing me back against the wall, leaning close strangely close as I struggled with him, and he looked furious as he snarled "You'd like it, wouldn't you? Me, your fucking pet again, doing tricks for romance novels--"

Betrayal and rage had flared hot and I hadn't even used a word to pick him up and slam him into the opposite wall, just the force of my will, and then he was gone again.

And as much as we hated each other we seemed to be drawn together. Sometimes he'd show up to not-help me, sometimes we just seemed to meet. Alleys and lonely places, like we had magnets in our pockets drawing us together; meeting during a stakeout, shouting at each under the turning leaves in Wolf Lake Park, scuffling in an alley, getting too close.

It had seemed like a logical extension of the fighting when he'd slammed me into a brick wall and kissed me, and just as logical to respond even as I fought him off of me. And the next time it had been him knocked into a wall, me bruising his lips, just to keep the balance. His fingers had dug hard into my shoulder, and there'd been a stretched-out second, just a breath, before he threw me away and vanished.

After that I hadn't seen him for a month, and now here was this letter. It might be, just barely, an apology. I didn't trust it, I didn't trust him, I couldn't forgive him for not being who and what he thought I was. Just another Winter Sidhe, nothing to me. He'd never been my friend, and I didn't miss him, and he could have the name and for a bargain basement price, it couldn't be worth that much and Bob's a stupid name anyway!

I realized I was crying, head in my hands, shoulders shaking with my angry panting. The crumpled letter lay on the floor not far from my desk.

I shook my head violently and pushed away, looking for a tissue to wipe my face.

As I glanced up at the window I shouted and jumped back. There was a figure outside, standing silently in the middle of the falling snow.

Eyes the color of a frozen lake, wild and feral. Long, stringy white hair falling around an angular, intense face, down past strong, sharp shoulders. Strips of rabbit pelt on his leather clothes, dark colored feathers falling here and there. Hunter's gear.

The bastard had watched me read his letter.

With the glass between us, I couldn't shout at him. But I walked to the window and glared defiantly, my intimidation factor somewhat diminished by red eyes and streaming nose. He glared back, and put a hand to my window. Frost formed where his hand touched, spreading across the pane, tracing little fern patterns.

I put my own hand on the glass by his, and, ignoring all common sense, willed heat into the window.

The glass did not break. The tendrils of frost stopped creeping outwards, and started to melt where my fingertips lay. We glowered at each other silently. Our hands were nearly touching; I could feel the brush of his energy, tinkling ice cold, and knew that he could feel mine, hot and alive.

Time passed. I couldn't maintain my anger. It slid away and just left the hurt. His face changed, too-- regret. Bemusement. The silence got so long I didn't know how long it had been anymore.

The wind kicked up outside, a mournful howl, and in a whirl of kicked-up snow he left me again.

He'd be back. The son of a bitch always came back.


	2. Abide the Cold Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's car breaks down. Harry meets the North Wind's huntsman again. OR DOES HE?

It was sundown. I was trudging through some frozen, untended field, the wind howling around me, blowing snow at the few inches of skin exposed around my eyes. I shifted my duster closer and shivered. Behind me, the Beetle was parked on the edge of the interstate, hazard lights flashing. A purely mechanical breakdown, for once; the charm that was supposed to get me all the way into New York was still holding.

For all the good it would do me.

Now I was laden with all the stuff I could carry-- which wasn't all that I'd wanted to take with me, but it was going to be a long hike-- and moving towards a light. I was hoping that the golden glimmer in the dark was a house, way off the interstate, and that it belonged to someone who wouldn't mind letting me use their phone. Maybe giving me a floor for the night, I wasn't picky. I could set out through Faerie after I'd had a chance to rest up and restore my power.

The closer I got, the more I started to distrust the light. I thought it had been the whirling snow making the light dance. Now it was clear that the flicker was from the light itself-- a fire, just at the tree line.

Hey, it was POSSIBLE it was a camper. In northern Pennsylvania, in a farmer's field, in the middle of January.

My staff was slung over my back. I reached one gloved hand up for it, drawing it before I moved forward again.

The wind shifted, and blew a smell to me. Laced with the cold snow, I smelled something cooking. Meat. My stomach lurched and growled.

Staff in hand, I walked forward. Soon, I could see the fire, crackling in the shelter of a rough lean-to at the roots of an old tree. The roots formed a little cave in the earth, big enough for a pile of what looked like furs, and enough sit for two people to sit at. There was a large bird of some kind-- goose or wild turkey, I didn't know-- spitted over the fire, a rough clay bottle beside it. And nobody in sight.

"Yeah, I trust this," I said, muffled through the scarf on my mouth. "I'll just sit down and dig in, huh?"

Or at least I tried to. A hand clamped over my mouth before I could get the second sentence out, and the wind and snow... solidified at my back.

"No sarcasm," whispered a voice in my ear, accent from somewhere in the British Isles, but old and not cultured. "Little talk. We may last the night."

I stiffened.

"Mmph," I said darkly.

"Please," said the Winter Hunter.

 

Over roasted goose, we did not talk. I'd touched iron to the meat before I ate: apparently the food was real, and if it was poisoned it was with something mundane that I couldn't taste.

The Sidhe sat across from me, picking meat off the bone with a silver dagger, glancing up every now and then, then looking away. I tried not to talk. To ask the obvious questions-- like why. Why was worrying me, especially because I couldn't get a snip of an old story out of my head, an account from a shepherd in Wales circa 1200 or so.

_-I found the ewe, but feared for us both; the snow was falling faster and deeper, and I was turned in circles and going further from home. Then spied I a fire, and made to it; there, in a cave, I found a hunter clad in leather, with hair white as snow, and he bid me sit and eat with him. I could not repay him yet he offered me his mead, and bid me lay down in the warm-"_

Yeah, I just bet the Hunter had 'bid him lay down in the warm.'

I mean, considering the choice of reading material and video viewing I knew him to have-

I laughed, suddenly, and choked as some mead went down the wrong pipe.

The hunter looked up sharply, a question in his eyes.

"I-- sorry," I said, face burning. "Never mind."

"Tell me," he said, and the smooth caress of his voice and intent look in his eyes only made me laugh harder. I buried my face in my hands.

Shit. It's never, EVER good to laugh at a Sidhe like that. They take offense really easily, even the nice ones, and the Hunter wasn't even slightly a nice one.

"I-- sorry, please," I choked.

He cocked his head.

I desperately offered him the truth. "I was imagining you watching Anal Sluts Two."

He stared at me. And said, very solemnly: "Four boners in Hooters magazine."

At that point, I started laughing too hard to actually make noise, and the Hunter's lean, harsh face cracked into a smile, crinkling his eyes and showing uneven, pre-dentistry teeth. His laugh was familiar, and so was his smile, somehow.

It shouldn't have been. I'd never seen the Hunter smile, and for most of the years I'd known him he hadn't had a face to smile with. He'd been masquerading as a simple spirit of intellect, living in a skull in my lab. But somehow-- that was Bob's smile. It went with his laugh and his voice and the personality I'd come to know over years, and somehow that made the hurt come back fresh.

My laughter faded away.

"Bob," I said, shaking my head. The Hunter stopped laughing, too. "...that's what this is about, isn't it? Repaying me for the name?"

"For my freedom. Keep my second name, for now," he said, looking away.

"You didn't have to do this." This was above and beyond what I'd have asked of him. He had to know that, right? I frowned. "Unless you made my car break down in the first place--"

"No." He shook his head.

"You could've just asked." I reached for the bottle of mead and took another long swig. "You can have the name back tonight. Just... I don't know, I'll formally ask you for another drink or something-"

The Hunter groaned, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead just above his nose and groaning as if he were in pain. "No. No, did you ever listen to anything I told you? Don't just give it away-"

"I don't want you in my debt. I didn't mean to, okay? So let's just fix that."

The hunter snarled and shook his head. "Don't throw away the boon of a Sidhe lord, idiot. Save it. What if you needed it-?"

"No more deals with the Sidhe," I snapped.

"Too late, Dresden," he snarled. "Too late. You've got my number-" that sounded weird coming from a feral faerie that could have stepped out of a really nasty old woodcut- "now act like you've got a brain. Once. Just once!"

"I don't operate that way! You were with me for years, you know that! Now just swallow your damn pride-"

The Hunter lunged to his feet. "MY pride, you witless-" He loomed in the shelter, raw power pouring off of him, carrying the sting of snow and the bite of an open flame. The fire writhed and twisted with his anger, contorting like a body in pain. I could feel it, feel the depths of power he carried in him-- hell's bells, his boss was one of the most powerful entities in Faerie and he wasn't exactly a junior employee. He could crush me if he wanted to.

And instead he growled and turned away. "I wanted to repay a major boon. It seemed easy enough. All you had to do was sit down, shut up, eat, and not freeze to death. And you can't even pull that off!" He whirled on me, his eyes full of something that was not quite rage and was more like...

Exasperation.

"Harry, you pain in the _ass._"

"What the hell were you expecting? You know me, Bob."

"All too well." His anger broke like a storm, leaving a sudden stillness. The fire crackled cheerfully, building back up to a nice, stable glow with nary a flicker.

Outside, the snow fell, forming a wall that insulated our little den from the occasional gust of wind. Inside, a cautious silence fell. The Hunter passed me the clay bottle, still sloshing half full, and I took another drink. The mead, like the goose, survived the touch of cold iron, and I drank it gratefully. It was good stuff. Not that I've ever had much, but I remembered mostly a cloying sweetness over this thin bitter taste. This was fuller and tasted more like honey, smoky and lingering on my tongue.

The air was filled with mingled scents-- smoke and snow, leather and earth, roasted fat and honey. It satisfied some sleepy animal part of me; I could hibernate here. Burrow into that pile of furs and sleep out the winter. The Hunter relaxed against the far wall, moving every now and then to reach for the mead.

We sat with our own thoughts and had a conversation in facial expressions. We shared thoughtful looks, traded flashes of regret and sudden smiles as one of us thought of something funny. I let my thoughts drift away. The mead helped, the bottle getting lighter as it we passed it back and forth, my brain getting lighter with it. Tomorrow faded further into the future, present but not pressing.

I tipped the clay bottle up to catch the last drops on my tongue and then shut my eyes.

"So does this mean we can talk now? Without fighting?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," the Hunter said simply, and I could almost feel him biting down a retort.

"I'd like to be able to do that."

"As would I."

Companionable silence. Dark, pleasant place behind my eyelids. The taste of honey-wine in my mouth.

I sighed. "We skipped the part where you get angry and kiss me."

"I kiss you? Is that what happened in November? Because-" The Hunter cut off.

I waited, but he didn't speak again. Suddenly paranoid that he'd taken off, like he always did, I sat up straight and opened my eyes.

The Hunter looked back at me. He was watching me very thoughtfully.

Good job, Harry. Get drunk with a Sidhe infamous for seducing everything that moved, and then bring up kissing.

The Hunter met my gaze. In his eyes, I saw everything we could do. Literally: the images actually flickered in my mind, before, during, and after. Twined bodies of every description, sleepy figures glowing with good sex. Well-muscled men lying sated next to their discarded armor, teenage girls and woman sleeping with smiles on their faces, hands resting on sheep-crooks, or heads pillowed on court gear, or arms around spell-books. Rough young men, ropy with working muscle, splayed out and glowing in utter relaxation. Satisfaction oozed off of every mental picture. And the Hunter was always there, half-clad or totally naked, watching me as I watched the scene, his lips curved up in invitation.

The Hunter wasn't as forceful about it as some of the other Faerie who've tried to mess with me. Didn't push his glamour on me. He gave me a moment to breathe. To think.

I knew, somehow, that this wasn't part of any deal. If we did this, it would be a fleeting exchange of favors, accepted and repaid in the same instant. No strings attached, and no obligations. It was almost a friendly offer, and I was free to refuse without pissing him off. I trusted that. Maybe it was dumb. Hell, it was dumb. But I trusted this one Sidhe where I'd already be running if it were any other.

"Come lay down in the warm," the Hunter said, and his lips curved up.

\-------------------------

I woke up, safe, well-covered but slightly uncomfortable. Something was scratching my face. I shifted, and dislodged something. An evergreen smell drifted up.

Pine needles. I was sleeping buried in a pile of pine bows in a dark, earthy hollow. Grey pre-dawn was visible over a wall of snow at the entrance. The air was warm, and smelled of earth and pine. No smoke, no meat. There had never been a fire.

'He woke up and it was all a dream.' It's not just another twist ending in Sidhe, it's THE ending. It's their favorite one when it comes to dealing with mortals. Okay, maybe second favorite, they're also big fans of 'he came back and a hundred years had passed'.

The hangover that the Hunter had thoughtfully left me was reassuring, really. The jerk. Of course, on the other hand... while I was hungry, I wasn't starving. It's like I'd eaten last night or something. And my muscles didn't feel like I'd spent the night sleeping in a pile of sticks. Aside from the throb in my head, I actually felt really good.

I dragged myself out of the makeshift bed and stretched as best I could in the low-ceilinged hollow. The sun wasn't quite up yet. I could cross into the Nevernever and be in New York before noon. I had a job to do, and after a night's sleep I was ready to tackle it.

It was all a dream. Hoo, boy. If so, it was one of those dreams I didn't want to explain to a psychiatrist.

The Hunter had had scars that hadn't been in his flashbacks. Whip marks across his back, the tracks of what looked like shackles, wrist and ankle. Something had clawed him down the chest.

"Kemmler," he'd murmured, and I'd laid my hand over the white lines sadly. His eyes had flared and he'd moved against me. My body had responded, impossibly, as if 'refractory period' was just a collection of gibberish syllables, and I'd gasped--

"Ah, stars, Bob-!"

Then Harry woke up. And it was _all a dream._ That was my story and I was sticking to it. And my cheeks were red because it was so damn cold out.


	3. He Said Sidhe Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six hundred years since the Hunter was last in the courts of Winter. He turns to an old friend for gossip and more. Explicit M/F.

Maeve's revel was a glittering dirge. The power of Winter had begun to fade, the Solstice behind them. And Maeve, petulantly, bid them revel through through the waning night.

The Leanansidhe watched the dancers whirling through Maeve's ballroom. The realities of the war had penetrated even here, in their way. Maeve and her courtiers mocked the fighting, dancing gaily together in parodies of human military gear. Dog-tags jingled and flashed.

For her part, she had not felt much like pretending; she wore silk and heavy linen in a tight gown, the sleeves belling out around her bare wrists. Maeve had pouted at her, looking hurt. She would forget by tomorrow. And Lea was more comfortable this way.

There was the creak of thick leather behind her, and the smell of woodsmoke; large, long-fingered hands fell on her waist. "Gudde wilkom, Lea." The man chuckled. "I didn't expect you here, dancing with the shut-ins."

She did not turn, but she leaned back against the body behind her. "Hello, Hunter. I would not expect you here, risking Maeve's displeasure again."

The Winter Hunter chuckled again, slipping a hand forward to rest low on her stomach. She felt a small squirm of remembered pleasure and her nipples peaked against her gown. "I have six centuries of pissing off Maeve to make up for. I was never her favorite anyway. What's your excuse?"

"I must be seen out of my demesne," she murmured, settling comfortably into his arms. "Lest they think I am afraid. My strength diminished."

"I hate to break it to you," the Hunter said, "but they know you are."

"I know," she murmured quietly. "I know. But if I do not try, then I will lose any influence I may still have."

"You'll rebound, Lea. You always do." The Hunter shifted against her back, fitting them snuggly together, and nuzzled her hair aside to kiss her bare neck. She shivered pleasurably, at the familiar but long-absent caress. "Have I mentioned how good it is to touch you again?"

"And how good it is to have hands to touch me with?"

"That's tactful," the Hunter chided playfully. "Have you been noticed by the right people? Leave with me."

"And go where?"

"Somewhere we can talk, among other things. I haven't had you in six centuries, and that's about as long as I'm going to put up with," he said, still in his conversational tone. The revelers around them heard it and ignored it.

"Hunter," she scolded. "Can you only think of one thing?"

His rough voice lowered, and was murmured into her ears only. "I think of all kinds of things, Lea. The song of a bowstring; the turn of seasons; the names of demons; the ingredients in a thousand potions; I think of Arctis Tor and my past and my future." Uneven teeth nipped at her ear. "But right now I'm thinking of you."

She shuddered deliciously and pulled out of his grasp to offer him her arm. "Then I will go with you."

He took her arm and gave her a wicked smile, tugging her towards the door.

A dreadlocked Sidhe girl in navel-baring, skin-tight fatigues blocked their way.

"Leanansidhe. Are you leaving already?" Maeve said, crossing her arms.

The Hunter bowed. "The lady consents to my company." He stayed double at the waist, but looked up through his lank white hair and winked. "You're not saving this one for anything, are you?"

Maeve laughed, a merry, rolling sound.

"I see. Go away, little familiar spirit. Have your fun."

Lea did not start, nor tense. She merely looked to one side at the Hunter, to see what he'd do.

He looked at Lea, raking her with his eyes, as if Maeve had not insulted him at all. "Oh, I plan to. Thanks, Maeve." He winked again and then tugged Lea into his arms, lifting her off the ground and stepping towards the doorway. The two of them-- him in his worn and ancient gear, her in her dress-- left the matching, mocking courtiers to their dance.

The doors slammed behind them when they left, and the Hunter let Lea's feet down only to back her against the great wooden panels. He kissed her fiercely, his tongue like a tongue of flame in her mouth, flickering and devouring, and she felt the old fire of him, his glamour that drew mortals and Sidhe alike like weary travelers to a shelter.

Her fingers clenched on his back, digging into leather, and on his neck, digging into skin. His hips crushed her pelvis against the wood. They traded pain, favor for favor, knowledge for knowledge-- she felt rage that had built in him six centuries long, used and humbled and bodiless, and she knew he could feel her fear and the touch of the ice that had bound her for better than a year, and the sheer terror at Mab's madness--

She needed, and her skirt fell back from her leg as she hitched her leg up over his hip-

"Not yet," the Hunter said, and she almost screeched as he pushed her back and stepped away. "I have to go to mortal Chicago."

"WHAT?"

"Your bower, Lea. Don't sic the hounds on me." A burning kiss on her cheek and he was gone, vanished into the darkness.

...he had changed less than she thought.

 

\---

 

The Leanansidhe was still as beautiful as he remembered. There was a wear on the edge of her, but there were a few flaws in his own polish, too. They had been rough centuries for the both of them.

But in all the years, hundreds on hundreds, she had not moved her bower. And in it she would be lying in fur blankets soft as snow, her skin that same milk-white color, her red hair splaying wild around her--

The Hunter moved faster, running silently through the wilds, his heavy ranging boots leaving no track. His sword and bow were slung across his back; he carried a wide leather satchel flat in front of him. A bribe, for information.

He moved into her demesnes, her patch of Faerie, and quickly turned towards where she'd be waiting.

As soon as he crossed the border, shadows appeared to pace him-- huge, dog-shaped shadows. As he reached the grotto where the Leanansidhe kept house, they circled him and stopped his progress. One hound in front, one behind, braced to spring, and growling. He paused, carefully, and resisted the impulse to draw on them.

The Leanansidhe stepped into view, radiantly naked but for the mane of bright red hair over her shoulders and a like-colored patch between her legs that drew his eyes like a beacon. When he could tear his gaze away and drag it back up her body, he met burning golden eyes.

"I should set the hounds on you for leaving me that way," she said.

"You'd never do it, wench. You like me too much," he said boldly, standing easily between the growling hellhounds. "Nice, by the way. I've never seen hounds this big."

"Cur." Lea walked forward, her delicate hands curled into claws, a snarl on her beautiful lips. "Oaf. Ogre."

"Little familiar spirit," he added helpfully, his eyes half-lidding as he watched her progress. He was in danger, here, if this tipped the wrong way, but how could he think of that when he could watch the sway of her hips?

"What have you brought me?"

He smirked. "It's for later."

"You are on thin ice, huntsman," she threatened him, stopping in front of him, the tips of her pert breasts just inches from his chest.

"And you're naked."

Her hand flashed out, raking his cheek, and then she had ripped the satchel out of his hands and was kissing him angrily. Her teeth sunk into his lip, and he tasted sweet, bright blood; her fingers ripped at the fastening of his gear. She dragged him back with her, and his jerkin and shirt fell behind him.

Her bed was in a grotto of ice, glinting white and lovely, the bed bound with dead vines; he couldn't have cared much less, with the seductress in his arms. He buried a hand in her hair to force the kiss harder, and writhed out of his trousers.

They pressed flush, cool skin meeting, and Lea had a leg wrapped around them when they tumbled into her bed.

She smelled of wildflowers and blood and raw female need, and he drowned himself in it. He ran his hands every inch of her pale white skin, every swell and hollow; he buried his face between her perfect breasts, mouthing the swell of skin, wrapping his lips around the swollen tips and suckling like a mortal child. Her nails raked across his back, and she cried out in wild pleasure.

He slid a hand between her legs, they parted for him. He was delirious with the smell and feel of her; intoxicated with the sounds she made as he teased her, calloused fingers tickling and circling. Her hips lifted, inviting him, and wetness slicked his hand...

With an impatient growl, he seized her flanks and dragged her against him. She cried out and left another trail of bloody marks down his back. Her body bowed under him like grass in the wind, and they came together, deeper and deeper and faster until she screamed out for him, once and then again, and he spent himself in the refuge of her body.

Afterwards, she held him, fingers laced through his hair, his head pillowed on her stomach.

He watched her face, sweet and languid, her like a halo of hellfire.

Her delicate nostrils flared.

"What have you brought me?" she murmured, and shoved his head away. "I can smell it. What is it?"

She tumbled off of the bed, hands and knees on the stone floor, scrabbling for the leather satchel. She ripped it open.

The faint fumes of fat and cheese doubled, becoming nearly a tangible presence in the grotto. The leather had done its work, and the Pizza Spress box still steamed hot.

"What is this?" Lea asked, looking up at him suspiciously.

"Food." The Hunter rolled onto his stomach and looked down at her. "Pizza after sex. It's a mortal invention. One of their best, I think."

She looked flushed, and her bright red tongue flicked across her lips. Peeking under the lid got her a glimpse of a meat and mushroom pizza; the smell of pepperoni wafted dangerously. "...what will I owe you for this feast?"

"Gossip, Lea. Information. Six centuries; the Courts have to have changed. I need the story, and I don't feel like being sneaky and tricking it out of anyone. Besides, you know the threads in that tapestry better than almost anyone."

She looked at him for a moment, eyes bright, and then nodded. "Done."

"Hey, save some!" He had to unwind himself from the furs to salvage a piece; the Leanansidhe was attacking the pizza like a one-woman pack of wolves at a deer.

He got his piece, and only a piece, and ate it slowly while the rest was devoured. It was a pleasure to watch, anyway. Not quite as pleasurable as having another slice of pizza, but a beautiful woman licking tomato sauce off of her fingers...

When she was done she crawled back into the bed, stomach slightly distended. "There is so much to tell."

"We can take breaks for sex if required," he said, pinching her snowy bottom.

"Churl," she said, smiling. "Ever the same."

"Constant," he agreed.

"Only you are not. You are changed."

He glanced down at the scars-- the teutonic necromancer had left clawmarks much less fetching than the lines Lea had given him. Those were already fading. Kemmler's handprints would be with him until the end of his existance.

He shrugged.

"No, not only the scars. Yourself."

"Just because I've updated my dialect?" He frowned. "I always lived on the borders of their world and ours. I moved with them."

"Not your words. Your power." She regarded him from under her lashes. "You are mingled with mortal power. You have a mortal name." Her red, red lips curved. "Bob."

He felt a stab of discomfort. Not that she could bind him with the name, but-- something else. Less tangible. He masked it with a smile. "It sounds graceless on your lips."

"And on mortal lips?" she leaned her chin on her hand. "My godson's lips?"

Ah. Yes.

"Information, Lea. Or you owe me another pizza." It was an avoidance, and Lea pounced on it.

Her eyes focused on him, delighted. "I wondered. Why after playing the familiar spirit for all those centuries you wouldn't run as far and as fast away as you could. But it's true, isn't it? You guided him to your fire when his car broke down."

The Hunter shook his head. "I owe him two major boons. That repaid one."

"And what did you do with him, when you had him close and warm?"

He snorted. "Only what he let me do. You know him, Lea. You know what tempts him."

"You never let that stop you before," she purred. "And you do love virgins."

The memory of that night was clear and fresh, and he could still see the line of that gangly mortal body, splayed out by the fire. The Hunter banished the image.

"What does it matter to you? He isn't yours anymore."

"I want him, still."

"Give him up, Lea." The Hunter raised a white eyebrow, and beckoned her close. "Come on, you promised information."

He saw the tug of the bargain on her. It was stronger than she might suspect, and in the end she sighed and spoke and told him all the news.

He had paid for the pizza with mortal money. Found, not stolen, too. It strengthened the gift, made it a more significant thing than if he'd paid in fool's gold, money that would turn into leaves when the sun rose.

And that was the reason he'd done it. Not because he'd thought, for a moment, that it would come out of someone's paycheck. Not because he'd thought of what a mortal might think of that. One particular mortal. One dark eyed wizard.

That was his story; he was sticking to it.


	4. The Wild Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is caught by the a hound of the Wild Hunt-- but his captor is looking for dessert, not dinner. Explicit m/m

The hunting horn sounded behind me and I found a burst of extra speed somewhere inside me. I was flying, duster flaring behind me like a superhero's cape, my feet barely touching the ground with each step. The burn in my legs was almost sweet--the raw feeling in my lungs was just painful, scratching. It felt like my throat was bleeding with each gulped breath. My blasting rod was heavy in my hand, a heavy weight I didn't dare discard. I was running low on power, and I needed a focal to escape. I couldn't give that much precision on my own.

I could make it. I could make it if I could find a weakness in the fabric between worlds. I could get to safety. To the mortal world, full of iron and threshholds-- Stars, what I wouldn't give for a manhole cover. A fire hydrant. A fire escape.

The frozen ground of Winter stretched out in front of me for miles on miles, the horizon bleak and far away. I cast out my energy again, looking for a ley-line, for a weakness, for a tear-

The horn sounded again and my concentration broke. I could hear the crunch of paws on the frozen grass behind me. A hound had broken ahead of the pack and was getting closer. I didn't look back.

Instead, I raised my blasting rod and gasped for air I couldn't spare to shout:

"FUEGO!" I didn't so much shoot fire as lay a sheet of it in front of me. Suddenly I was dashing through a quickly forming marsh, leaving a trail of melted ground behind me.

I had to take the heat from somewhere. I'd chosen the ground under the Erlking's horse. So before they got to the marsh, the hunter and hounds had to go over a sheet of ice. One of those little balance of nature things.

Behind me, hooves slid, paws scrabbled, and there was a series of muddy, sucking splashes.

Triumph fueled me. I strained outward, feeling the world around me--

There was a weakness in the fabric of the world. A hundred meters ahead, ten to my left. I could feel it.

I didn't break course, didn't show the hunt behind me that I'd seen it. The hound closest to me had mostly avoided the marsh, was still on my heels.

So close. I didn't break left until the last second, shooting another gout of flame into the sky, leaving another sheet of ice. Let the damn hound corner on that!

"Apparturum," I wheezed, waving with my blasting rod; the fabric of the universe tore. The muscles in my legs had stopped burning, and now there was an empty, relaxed feeling as they stopped holding me up. I staggered forward, hands out. Ten more feet. Five more feet.

A heavy weight hit me, and teeth closed on my leg almost playfully, shredding through thick pants like toilet paper. I fell headlong, my fingers stretching towards the portal.

I know why rabbits scream when they're caught.

I turned on the dog, seeing it close for the first time-- a shadowy beast the size of a horse with glowing red eyes. My own blood dripped from its teeth. The knowledge of my impending death exploded out of my ruined throat in a howl. There weren't words, but there didn't need to be; I didn't need a word to focus my intent. My whole body, the last vestiges of my strength and power all focused on _get off of me_.

Energy exploded between the hound and me, smacking it in the face. It shook its head-- shook me like a rag doll. I took my blasting rod two-handed and slammed it across the hound's nose once, twice, three times, my arms almost as wooden as my legs, and strained backwards.

My bloody foot slipped out of my sneaker, and the hound's jaws crunched around a mouthful of rubber.

I lose more sneakers that way.

I dragged myself through the portal, and into--

A forest. This frozen mountain place, lit with dull gray light. Predawn.

My adrenaline rush faded into numbness.

This wasn't Chicago. I'd lost my way in the Nevernever. I'd been herded. Driven by the hunt. I was an idiot. I stared up at the pine trees with a dull resignation, feeling myself bleed into the cold snow. My blasting rod dropped from my numb fingers.

Then heavy paws sunk into the snow on either side of me.

Rage surged up from my last reserve, and I jammed my hand upward, slamming my palm into the dog's throat. I couldn't move my fingers to wrap around his throat, I just drove my arm up into the massive neck, trying to crush a larynx bigger around than my wrist. The hound snarled, its weight crushing down on me, and it batted me with a huge paw, blunt claws dragging across my duster and digging through my shirt and skin.

My vision started to swim, my abused lungs struggling to take in air. The world began to take on a reddish cast.

Then the hound shuddered and reared back. I realized that the redness was the rising sun, streaming through the trees.

The hound's shadowy body melted under the light, pieces of darkness shedding off as the red rays danced over it. I could see the form at the center of it, white as snow. Or bone.

A naked figure straddled me, my hand jammed just under his chin. Red blood-- MY blood-- dripped off uneven teeth, stained greasy white hair red.

The weight fell off of my lungs and I drowned in oxygen. My vision went black.

The Hunter's voice followed me into the dark. "MINE."

\---------------------------

The next thing I knew was warmth. A warmer place than the snow; it smelled like fire, snow, and leather. And it tasted like leather, too. There was a gag securely in my mouth.

I was naked, laying spreadeagle across some kind of fur. When I tried to move, I realize that I was bound. There were leather thongs around my wrists and ankles-- not too tight, at least at first. The more I tested them, the tighter they drew.

My heart started to pound.

"Wake, my prize."

I opened my eyes and raised an eyebrow at my captor to express how corny I found his choice of opening lines.

The Winter Hunter was dressed now, in his black leathers. My eyes flicked around, took in what looked like a hunting lodge. Silver weapons on the walls. Trophies-- deer and bear neck to neck with other, weirder things.

I could hear wind howling around the cabin, and it carried the sound of that damn hunting horn-

My heart started to pound again, and I jerked, pulling the ties around my wrists tighter.

The Hunter smiled ferally, and I felt the wild hunger still in him-- he was still hunting. My shoulderblades scrubbed the fur as if I could dig away from him, that prey-animal terror rising up in me-- and something else. That thing that had been between us since he first manifested in my lab. Fear, fury, and lust.

He stood out of his low seat and prowled over to run a pale, calloused hand down my chest, over bandages and skin. Callouses. Most Sidhe wouldn't allow it, but the Hunter's glamour had nothing to do with unearthly purity or perfection. No, he was something else. He was beautiful, the Sidhe always are-- but he was beautiful in the same way snow-capped mountain tops are, rough and cragged. And dangerous.

And irresistable. His touch made my heart throb with a mix of fear and excitement as if I were looking over the face of a cliff. The attraction to him was the same mad, stupid thing that takes root in people when they look down at great distances. That makes you think _what if I jump_? The same dumb animal part of me that responded to all the beautiful, deadly seductive creatures that had ever crossed my path was already panting for him to touch me again.

"Still running," the Hunter said, his voice rough with hunger. He splayed his long-fingered hand over my heart, counting the pulses. "But you will beg, and I will have you."

I narrowed my eyes at him, a show of bravado I didn't feel. Older parts of my brain, the parts that didn't think in words, they knew how this was going to turn out. The predator crouched over me. I was going to be devoured. I was going to like it. He had me now; why fight?

Because I wasn't his prey and I wasn't his mortal thrall and he couldn't have me, dammit!

"Thou warrior. Fight me until surrender." He bent his head to kiss my gagged lips, and his lank white hair fell around his face like a curtain. I jerked my head away, and he simply moved down to my exposed neck.

His teeth pressed against my throat, and mingled lust and fear paralyzed me. His lips dragged along my skin and I stayed frozen in my bonds. My senses narrowed until all I could feel was him touching me, his hand on my chest, his lips mouthing against my skin.

My arousal was a heavy weight between my legs, and I knew with sense of dull resignation that if he put his calloused hand on me I would crack and beg. And if he-

I tried to stop the image, but it plastered itself in front of my mind's eye. I could all but feel his long hair brushing my thighs, his cool lips...

I moaned in despair, my eyes going shut. There was no convenient pitcher of water to beat back the rising tide of lust, just the warmth and the pressure of his skin against mine.

He left me, drawing back. I whimpered as he drew away, but he didn't go far. I watched as he found a clay jar of something, uncorked it and dipped his finger in. Whatever it was, it was odorless and viscous-- slick, as he rubbed it between his fingers.

Then he knelt beside the bed again, and slipped his hand between my spread legs. The leather of his jerkin rasped against my thighs.

A sudden panicked burst of heterosexuality flared and was swallowed whole by the sensation of his slick fingers brushing me.

He leaned up, and pulled the gag from my lips.

"Beg," he said, almost kindly. "Beg, and I will take you."

I moistened my lips and met his eyes, feline and amused.

"_Forzare._"

The spell knocked him backwards and off of me, long enough to incinerate my bonds with a muttered word. I'd only meant to char them a little, just enough that they'd snap, but I was overloaded with adrenaline and the power had surged out and demolished the tops of the leather cords and the bedposts they were tied to.

I didn't stop to rub my numbed wrists and ankles. I flung myself at the dazed Sidhe before he could recover, ripping open his leather jerkin and dragging off of him to tangle his arms. I pinned him with my weight and my will and all the frustrated energy that he'd summoned up in me.

Now came the part where I found my clothes and ran for it.

I should start by finding my clothes. CLOTHES, Harry.

I was kneeling naked over him, and his chest was bare and scored with white scars and his eyes were wide with shock. I was the predator now. I was the hunter. I HAD HIM. I took a handful of his white hair and pulled his head up to kiss him fiercely.

His lips parted under mine-- he surrendered, and it was as sweet as a drug. I felt the hunger pour through me.

Clothes. If I could get into the cold air I could think straight again. Just had to get out of here.

Somewhere out there, the hunt was still going, the storm was still whipping around us. It wasn't over yet.

His pants were already undone, loose over his arousal, and I didn't know if he was fighting me or helping me as I peeled them off in a series of sharp jerks. I threw him across the bed and grabbed the jar of oil he'd left nearby, spilling it carelessly across my chest and groin. It was cool, but not cold enough to put a dent in my libido.

His legs were pale and chorded with working muscle, and I moved between them, still trying to force myself away from him and out the door.

He shifted his hips back to meet me, grinding his body against mine, and the pressure against my erection drove me out of my mind.

"Please," he rasped, needy and shameless.

I gave in to the hunger. I buried myself in his body and it was so unshakably right-- the shape we made, the feel of him around me, under me-- all good. I held his hips in my hands and drove him hard into the bed, and our bodies took on a rhythm that underscored the sound of the wind.

He shifted and then started to meet my thrusts-- I looked down and saw that he'd worked his hands free, was bracing himself against the bed and driving back against me. Hungry. He was hungry, too, his body was dragging me in and his moans were rough and feral.

He called my name, a plea, and I dragged him back against me sharply. Too much. Too tight, too hot, too good.

I shouted his name and fell against his back, reeling.

It was like falling against a wall. My weight didn't budge him, even when he braced on one hand, catching my wrist with the other. He dragged it to his own groin, pressed my hand against hard flesh.

Dazed, I curled my hand around him, and he curled his fingers around my own. It seemed painfully tight, but he shuddered in satisfaction and started to move our linked hands, mercilessly hard and fast.

He made a long, low sound-- a groan that I could feel -- and then there was wetness across my hand and his, and he crumpled forward.

The wind seemed quieter. I could hear the crackle of the fire, now. Under me, the Hunter was warm and quiescent, his breathing slow. My weight didn't seem to bother him at all. We lay like that for some timeless span, floating in a relief that was as deep as our lust had been.

Reality, such as it was, began to sink in. I was too burned out to panic much, though I could feel the beginnings of it. Worry and self recrimination and all those mortal things you get after a badly thought-out one-night-stand.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked, and it surprised me how much it hurt to speak. I hadn't felt the rawness of my lungs before.

"In my domain, little wizard, you ask if you harmed me?" The Hunter snorted, dislodging me slightly.

I pushed myself up to glare at his back, and found my eyes locked on his scars. Whipmarks, white lines in his skin. No actual whip had made them-- they were the manifested hurts of his time disembodied, six hundred years spent enslaved to some wizard or another. The ragged scars on his chest were the work of a really nasty necromancer named Kemmler.

I wonder if he had any scars from me. I couldn't remember every conciously punishing him-- but he'd run some pretty risky errands while I owned him. Were any of these stripes mine?

I traced my fingers along one of the lines, and this time his motion was more like a squirm.

"Cut it out, Harry," he said, sounding a lot less haughty. He propped himself on his elbows and looked over his shoulder at me.

"Oh, good, you remembered my name," I said sarcastically, and then coughed, tasting iron.

The Hunter rolled out from under me and shoved me up onto the bed. "Stay there. I'll get you something to drink."

I nodded. I felt like I'd been running a marathon-- muscles I didn't know I had had stiffened as I lay there.

Funny thing, that.

I curled onto the bed, burrowing under a layer of fur, my eyes almost drifting shut. But it was bad to fall asleep in faerie--

And to accept food or drink. Shit. My eyes snapped open and I sat up. The painful twinge that shot through my legs and abdomen pushed back the need to sleep.

The Hunter held out an aluminum can, raising an eyebrow at my sudden panic. "It's mortal."

I crossed my arms.

He sighed. "It really is. I keep a few sixpacks around-- call it a bad habit. That and pizza."

I shook my head.

The Hunter rolled his eyes. "Three times and I am bound. Drink the damn Sprite, Harry."

I glared at him and reached out for the can, popping the top and knocking back a swallow. I think I whimpered-- carbonated beverages and sore throats aren't the best mix. But it was cold, and once I'd swallowed it I did feel better.

The Hunter nodded. "I'd be offended, but I'm too busy being glad that you _actually listened_ to something I taught you. And demonstrating actual common sense, too-- it's a calendar event." He took a fur from the bed to wind around his hips, and settled gracefully into a chair.

I snorted and took another swallow, and didn't stop till I'd drained the can. When I cleared my throat, I didn't feel quite like I wanted to die. Good enough.

"The Erlking," I rasped, "is going to kill you."

"The Erlking knows hunger. And he knows me," the Hunter said, looking mostly unconcerned. Mostly. "I caught you, whatever happened."

"You were supposed to kill me," I pointed out.

He shrugged. "I didn't want to."

"Is anyone going to accept that?"

"They have before."

I gave him a theatrical pout. "And I thought we had something special."

"You're the first one that almost got away, if that's any consolation." The Hunter's eyes lidded in pleasure. "What a run. Join us, next time. You'd be welcomed."

"NO." I started coughing again.

"Still clinging to your virtue like a cheerleader on prom night," the Hunter said with a strange smile. "It's kind of cute."

"Bite me, Bob."

The Hunter's smile deepened and showed teeth. "I consider it an invitation. Next time."

"No next time," I said firmly. "This is me, showing common sense and applying what you've taught me." I was uncomfortably naked-- I started looking around desperately for my clothes. I saw my jeans in a heap in one corner, and made something just barely slower than a lunge for them.

"When have I ever advised you against getting laid?" The Hunter looked genuinely bemused. His eyes tracked me lazily as I scrabbled for my clothes.

"You never told me to take up with a fricking Sidhe Lord! And when I was beholden to Mab..." I shuddered. "At least Lea 'just' wanted to kennel me." I reached my jeans-- my shirt was crumpled next to them, with the rest of my things. I squirmed into my pants with relief.

The Hunter watched me with interest. When I was mostly clothed again, he sighed. "Harry, your godmother has many fine qualities, and by that I mean an absolutely fantastic pair of tits. But of all the things I like about her, her sense of politics does not top the list, all right?"

"What does that mean?"

"That I don't need to make deals for power. I don't collect mortals. I just screw them."

"I'm feeling pretty screwed, all right." My duster and blasting rod weren't with my clothes. I tried not to look like I was looking around for them.

"The next time you say those words, you're going to have a smile on your face," the Hunter promised.

"Iron chastity belt. That'll do it."

"Harry! Think of the chafing. You won't be able to walk."

"That's what I'm worried about!"

The Hunter flowed to his feet and started pulling on his leathers.

"I wouldn't hurt you. I won't hurt you, when the time comes."

"Forget it." I jerked out of the bed and started pacing the boundaries of the room, keeping my eyes away from my... captor?

I whirled, and bumped into the Hunter. The contact panicked me and I stumbled back.

He held up my duster and blasting rod, quirking an eyebrow. I snatched them gracelessly, hugging them against my chest. _My_ stuff. I held my rod between us, deliberately ignoring anything Freudian about it.

"Hunt's over. Go home."

But what did that actually mean?

"What do you mean it's over?"

The Hunter blinked at me. "Harry, it means it's over. The spirits of the hunt are put to rest again, the Hunt won't be called for another few years, the Erlking is propping up his feet after a long night's work. Over."

"And I survived."

"Yep."

"You saved my life. Do I... owe you?"

"Nope. I caught you and had my will of you. That's legit."

I made a mental note to find out _exactly_ what that meant. When I got home, I'd ask-

No. No, I wouldn't. Bob wasn't at home. He was right here. And there had been the Hunt and there had been this, and what the hell did that mean? What kind of hold did he have over me? How did it stack up to his debt? I had a sudden vision of the thralls of the Red Court, hooked on narcotic venom, and the equally screwed thralls of House Raith, strung out on pure pleasure. Owned. Happy about it.

I'd drowned in pleasure and hadn't even considered how wrong-- not just a man, but a damn Sidhe, and the one being I'd always trusted to keep me informed had done it to me!

Something inside me snapped. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?"

The fire in the fireplace roared up as my anger swelled. "What does it mean, _Bob_? You caught me, so now what? Are you going to show up again and do this whenever you want? Am I allowed to say no? What the hell do I have to do to get a straight answer?!"

The Hunter blinked at me again, unmoving. "Harry, it was just sex."

"I don't have JUST SEX with men!"

"Yes you do. Pennsylvania. January. The Beetle broke down."

My temper only flamed higher. I didn't want to remember that, or think that it was anything but a dream. The runes of my blasting rod glowed furious red, and the fire burned higher. The damned Sidhe. The damned vampires. And now someone I had once trusted like family who wouldn't leave me alone-!

"WHY ME, DAMMIT?"

The Hunter grabbed my glowing blasting rod, and his eyes flashed.

The tide of my magic was extinguished like a campfire under an avalanche. The sheer weight of Winter landed on me and chilled me deep. I gasped in the sudden cold, the sudden freeze where there had been a sea of energy for me to command.

"Because I like you," he said simply. "And I don't like politics either."

I flinched as he reached past me, but he was only reaching for the door. There was the shiver of a portal opening, as he ripped the borders between worlds with an easy finesse I never could have managed.

"Get some rest, Harry. Maybe some decaf." A calloused hand gripped my shoulder, and the Hunter leaned forward to kiss me. A simple dry brush of lips, with no glamour or wild passion in it.

Then he slapped me on the shoulder companionably and shoved me out of his lodge. I stumbled back and down.

A stairwell door slammed shut in front of me. I was standing on a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which was my own apartment door.

I was bone tired. I'd run from the Wild Hunt. I'd had passionate, animalistic sex. Bob liked me.

Maybe this was one of those times to just take his advice. I turned towards my door and staggered down to get some rest.


	5. Dragging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mini-PWP. The Hunter chases a pretty bit of tail in a dress. Explicit m/m, crossdressing.

"A masquerade," the Leanansidhe said, touching her ruby lips with one lacquered nail. "How lovely."

She had come, whimsically, dressed in a mundane power suit with sensible heels that clicked on the marble. She made polyester into something decadent. The Hunter admired that. And wasn't quite salivating. But he hadn't come to dance with Lea. He stepped out onto the dance floor in his pirate gear, looking for a partner-- mm, White Court, no thank you. Summer Sidhe. Too smug. Winter Court... been there, done her. And her. And him. And her.

There, though, was a stranger. ...oh, she was TALL. Inhumanly tall, perhaps a dryad? There was something not quite right in the way she moved, something that drew his eye to the way her silken gown caressed her legs, her firm buttocks. She was so lean, and he loved his women to curve, to be soft, but... well. What was an immortal life without variety?

"May I have this dance?"

She smiled at him, her eyes hidden behind her mask, and offered a long-fingered, large hand. Yes, tree spirit. They danced-- wild and spinning, then closer, and the Hunter delighted in her sheer height, nearly a head she had on him.

And then, as they pressed flush he realized that she had two heads on him. And one was pressed, by their height, directly into his stomach. His answering want pressed again one silk-clad thigh.

He hadn't considered. Of course-- a human man, a tall one, in heels just tall enough to send him towering above the rest of the gathering. If anything, it made the Hunter want his dance partner the more. The decadent urge to be fucked senseless by a man in a dress whelmed up in him, and he bother to resist it.

"I know a place," he said. "What do you say? You and I?"

"I know a place, too," his partner whispered, deep and throaty, something about the voice sending a thrill up the Hunter's back. Something familiar, something delicious.. he followed the 'lady's' lead, out of the neutral gathering space. His dance partner tore a hole in the world, beckoning him through to the mortal realm.

Lust always made him stupid. How else to explain how he could have his hands all over the silk-clad body-- naked while his 'lady' was still in dress and wig and mask and high high heels, straddling him-- and not know? To not know until 'she' was buried to the hilt in him, until his legs wrapped around 'her' hips, tangling in the rucked-up silk, when he arched his body up to kiss mouth and jaw and neck-- to not KNOW until the mask tumbled off and he realized that the pendant he held between his teeth as he nuzzled 'her' throat was a silver pentacle-

He screamed "HARRY!" and ruined the silk dress forever. And heard his name-- his coarse mortal gift of a name, grunted as the wizard drove into him, climaxing with a vindicated growl.

"Happy solstice, Bob."

Oh, earth and air, but wasn't it?


End file.
